In the heart of Sulaymaniyah, the scent of warm, freshly baked bread curls through the streets like a quiet song from the corridors of the past. Behind it is not just dough or fire, but ideas, the hands, heart, and vision of a woman named Shino Sheikh Latif, who is determined to restore nan to its rightful, prestigious place on Middle Eastern tables.

Shino is not a celebrity, but she is well known in her neighborhood. She does not hold press conferences or sign cookbooks. Yet in her small bread factory called Shino Khanum, she leads a quiet revolution, one that rises like yeast, carrying within it the weight and warmth of Kurdish heritage.

Bread as memory and identity

Shino hails from Penjwen, a town steeped in the ancient rhythms of village life. Like many Kurdish women, she learned how to make bread from her mother, who learned it from hers, and so on, for generations.

The method is almost sacred: wheat or barley, ground into flour, mixed lovingly with salt, water, and sometimes eggs – or perhaps other secret ingredients never shared. The dough is kneaded by hand, pressed flat onto a teak board, and slid into a glowing clay oven. It is a labor of love and identity; otherwise, Shino would have opted for modern machinery.

“In every Kurdish home, bread is not just food,” Shino says. “It is presence. It is history. It is a connection.”

For generations, Kurdish women baked bread not only for their own families, but also for neighbors, sending warm rounds of nan across fences or to cousins in nearby towns. Bread was always shared, and it continues to be a cornerstone of Kurdish meals in cities, towns, and villages alike. This enduring tradition offers hope to those like Shino who treasure nan as part of their identity.

A quest to save nan

As urban life grows faster and more modern, homemade bread has gradually disappeared. Factory-produced loaves have replaced traditional ones as clay ovens give way to electric models. Fewer children learn the art of breadmaking. Kurdish bread – once a sacred staple – has quietly begun to fade away.

“I noticed how rare it was becoming,” Shino says. “And I was afraid. I thought: what if one day, my children don’t even know the taste of it?”

So, she decided to act. 

Five years ago, without major funding or modern tools, Shino opened her own bakery. It began with just her and three other women standing shoulder to shoulder, working from morning to dusk. They started small, with barley bread, Hawrami flatbreads, and oven-baked cookies.

Word spread quickly. Their bread was different: warm, soft, and rich with memory. Customers could taste the care in every bite.

Today, the Shino Khanum bread factory employs sixteen women. Some are widows, some are mothers, and some come from places as far as Qaradagh and Halabja. They work in two shifts, each lasting six hours. Shino is there the whole time, guiding, teaching, laughing.

A band of sisters

“We are like a family here,” Shino says. “We cook, we eat, we talk. I know all their stories. They know mine. We grow together.”

You can feel the bond, shared purpose, and sisterhood between these highly-skilled Kurdish women, united in the revival of nan’s legacy.

They bake a wide range of Kurdish breads, each echoing a different region and memory: nani hawrami, samoon, nawashkena, and nansaji. Some are cooked on iron pans, others in clay ovens

“Some days, we go through nine bags of flour,” she says. “Our bread is ordered online, by phone, or by people just coming into the factory. We even offer home delivery in Sulaymaniyah.”

Online orders are only part of the story.

“We get orders from everywhere: Erbil, Kirkuk, Halabja, even from the UK, Germany, Norway, the United States, and Saudi Arabia,” Shino says with a smile. “Especially the nani hawrami and cookies. When people travel, they take our bread with them. That means everything to me.”

Carrying tradition forward

But it’s not just about bread anymore.

Through her network, Shino helps other women in rural areas to produce dairy goods, including fresh cream, butter, yogurt, and cheese. These products are sent to the factory to be sold alongside the bread. A full Kurdish breakfast, wrapped in tradition, delivered to their door.

This communal tradition is deeply rooted in harawazy, which means group work, reflecting the Kurdish ethos of unity and teamwork. From farming to freedom struggles, from rebuilding cities to preserving culture, the Kurdish people carry tradition forward together.

“I never imagined we would come this far,” she says. “But we did. Together.”

Shino’s story is about preserving culture, but it’s also deeply personal. As a housewife with no previous job, she wanted to support her family while remaining true to her roots. It wasn’t just about baking – it was about dignity, independence, and legacy.

When she started, it wasn’t just about bread, but about income, dignity, and legacy.

“Even if the project is small,” she tells Kurdistan Chronicle, “it’s important to stand on your own two feet. To be useful. To keep something alive.”

Her dream now is to open a second branch in Sulaymaniyah so more families can access warm, handmade bread. But she knows it won’t be easy.

Quest for togetherness

The work is exhausting. Summers are sweltering, the shifts are long. Many women travel far, balancing work with family in a region where political instability and economic neglect from the federal government in Baghdad have made life unpredictable.

Since 2014, Kurdish citizens have endured budget cuts, delayed salaries, and economic hardship – political issues beyond their control. Yet they persist, adapt, and survive. They no longer rely solely on government salaries. 

The bakery is, in the end, not just about selling food. It’s a quiet but powerful statement: Kurdish women are here – strong, capable, and unyielding.

“We are half of society,” Shino says. “And we are proud to support our families with our hands.”

In a world where tradition often fades silently, the women of Shino Khanum are making sure it speaks through fire, flour, and the fragrance of freshly baked Kurdish nan.

So, if you ever pass through Sulaymaniyah on a crisp morning, follow that smell. It might just lead you to something ancient, beautiful, and thriving. 

Fatima Qasim Habib is a journalist, writer, translator, artist, poet, and art designer who has organized numerous art exhibitions in both the Kurdistan Region and international locations.